No Other Way
by sans nom
Summary: Because their story was far from finished.
1. Prologue: Rand

**A/N:** I am now entering new territory. This is completely different from the angst and fluff that I've done over at the anime kingdom. I've never done a GG fic before, so constructive criticism is welcome. BTW, it's heavily literature-themed which makes me really glad because I don't usually get to do this with my other fandoms. Thank goodness for lit-freaks Rory and Jess!

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, Gilmore Girls is not mine.

**No Other Way**

**Prologue: Rand**

Because their story was far from finished.

'_People create their own questions because they are afraid to look straight. All you have to do is look straight and see the road, and when you see it, don't sit looking at it - walk.'_

The sign was made of oak. Years of listening to her best friend's mother rattle off the characteristics of oak furniture to a wary customer taught her how the grain swirls, the color darkens, and how the smell, rich and acidic, becomes stronger with age. She could tell just by observing that the sign was definitely oak. A cheery red trim followed the edges, broken by a small crack from the lower margin extending to the tiny space between two letters. One of the brass hooks holding the sign, suspended above the entrance, was rusting.

It was not ridiculous how she figured out each and every minute water stain on that blasted sign. It was what one would expect after staring at it for over 20 minutes. Of course, she could just suck in her stomach, clench her teeth, push the door open, and go inside.

She could.

Or, she could continue her silent worship of the wooden sign above the door.

What was she doing here, anyway? Jeremy, Hannah and Lee had invited her to explore the city with them, like they did every interesting city they stopped by on the campaign trail, but she promptly refused. Mary (who was nothing like Tristan's Mary, she could tell you that) invited her on a coffee run because she shared her obsession for caffeine, but she declined that too. After two long years, she was finally here. Was she really going to spend her precious free hours doing touristy things or, gasp, sipping an espresso at Starbucks?

Two years. One hundred ninety-five point eight miles.

She knew because she drove every single damn mile until she reached his doorstep. It took her almost four hours to get there, and less than two to get out. And now, after two years, she was back.

She was insane, she concluded. Or masochistic. She liked picking her wounds, secretly reveling at the sharp pain it brought. Her mother hated this habit of hers, choosing to turn a blind eye for the sake of ignorance. Emotional wounds got the same treatment, only worse. She'd turn each one in her head an infinite number of times, until her heart ached and bled, until all her tears dried up, until her fingers stiffened from clutching at her pillow too tightly. A part of her brain she'd firmly shut down, days before entering the city, suddenly resurfaced, taunting her with "Rory, Rory, Rory, sweet and gory," deliciously rolling the R's. "Where's your bravery now?"

She slowly moved her right hand for the nth time to grasp the knob (What was the point? She wasn't going to open it anyway – like all the previous times she attempted.) when the door swung open on its own accord.

Okay, maybe not. An elderly woman with a pink hat and kind eyes stood at the doorway, shielding her view of what was inside. Protecting her.

"Excuse me dear. I'm so sorry. Were you going in?" she chirped, eyes merry. She held the door wide for her, an invitation.

She shrunk back in fear. "Uh…" her eyes wildly darted in all directions. She was still outside, but she could already feel the walls closing in on her. "I-I wasn't, what I meant was, I was just- "

The woman's kind eyes gave way to sincere confusion. Suddenly, she understood the allure of big cities – where there was an infinite number of places to get good coffee, where its inhabitants were too busy to dissect each other's lives with prying eyes and sharp tongues, where there was no girl to put on a towering pedestal to be worshipped as the fucking town princess, where the sordid affairs of Rory and Jess were unknown and, quite frankly, simply unimportant.

She sighed, defeated, then stepped into the gaping doorway underneath the oak sign that read, "Truncheon Books" in bold, black letters.

**A/N:** This has been done a million times. Oh, a million and one, including this.


	2. Chapter 1: Neruda

**A/N:** Getting into the mood proved to be difficult because I've been flying for the past few days. I wrote this with The Weepies in my playlist, Neruda flashing on my screen, and vivid flashbacks of my ex on repeat.

**Disclaimer:** The characters aren't mine, the poem is Pablo Neruda's (and his beautiful mind), an excerpt below belongs to Ayn Rand.

**No Other Way**

**Chapter 1: Neruda**

Jess, a bottle of shampoo, and too many memories he tried to forget.

'_Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.__  
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes._

_I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.**  
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.**  
_

_Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms  
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.  
_

_Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer  
and these the last verses that I write for her.'_

Fate, which he surprisingly believed in considering the millions of books he read, was trying to tell him something, when he randomly chose a book of Neruda's poems from his bulging bookshelf. What it was, he wasn't quite sure yet. He pondered on this, as he chewed on his morning toast – dry, like his humor – and sipped his morning tea (because he had pretty much sworn off coffee for obvious reasons.

"Hey Matthew, give me a number!"

A crash followed by the slamming of the door and loud cursing floated from the adjacent room. "A number, as in a number between one and ten? 'Coz that's just ten choices. Or a number, like a hot girl's number? I have more of those."

"Stop being cute, Mat-ty," he called, obnoxiously stressing the last syllable. "Between one and twenty."

A brunette in a tan sweater stomped into the kitchen, waving a bottle of… well, something at him in a supposedly threatening manner. "I thought I already made myself clear. I'm not sharing my shampoo!"

His left eyebrow immediately went up. "What, that flower-smelling crap? I don't know if you noticed this, but I'm not Chris. And," he added after a bit of thought, "Chris has more hair. More flower-smelling, girly hair. Like you."

"Oh." He froze, blinking stupidly at Jess' smirking face. "So that explains the lack of afro. I need my damn coffee. S'too early to argue without caffeine," Matthew muttered darkly, as he stomped towards the coffee machine. A familiar scent slowly filled the room, causing his stomach to turn, but only slightly. It had been two years, after all.

"My number?" he reminded him.

Matthew effortlessly flipped the shampoo bottle to peer at the price sticker on the bottom. "Tell Chris he owes me seventeen dollars. And fuck you. I have manly hair."

He rolled his eyes. "Why you spend that much shit on shampoo is beyond me," he mumbled, quickly flipping pages until he reached sonnet number 17. His fingers abruptly froze, mouth tensed, as dark eyes skimmed the first few lines. Fate clearly loved him today. But irony loved him more.

* * *

"_I didn't know you liked Jane Austen. It's just, she's…" she made wide circles with her hands in a helpless gesture, "worlds away from Bukowski and Kerouac. Not that I'm stereotyping you," she hastily added. "Because that would be silly considering I love beat poetry just as much as you do…"_

_Her rambling was interrupted by a deep chuckle. "I can read different things too, you know. Too much of the same thing is boring."_

"_Which is why Hemingway puts me to sleep."_

_The teen ignored her swipe at his literary tastes, as his hand skillfully plucked the book from her waving ones. He smirked. "Pablo Neruda?"_

"_It's beautiful," she justified almost immediately._

_His eyes closed shut as he attempted to reach into not-so-faraway memories of warm afternoons spent on a rickety bridge as he waited for a certain letter from Washington. "I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off," he recited. "I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."_

_He opened his eyes to meet her shining blue ones. Her cheeks, he noted, were stained red._

"_You've read Neruda."_

_His lips formed a lazy smirk. "Different things, Gilmore. Different things."_

_

* * *

_

The bell sounded, signaling the exit of his last customer. His eyes darted to the stupid cuckoo clock Matthew insisted on keeping. The shrill peeping that came every goddamn hour was apparently not annoying enough for Chris to chuck it out the window, and expensive enough for Matthew to keep it.

He had less than an hour before closing.

Automatically, his hands reached out for the books which were out of place, swiftly rearranging them in alphabetical order, by author. His hand stopped at "Rand."

Upon second reading, he actually appreciated "Atlas Shrugged." Not that he'd tell her, of course. Up to now, he was still unsure whether they were on speaking terms.

He pulled it out, opening it on a random page.

'_Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark. In the hopeless swamps of the not quite, the not yet, and the not at all, do not let the hero in your soul perish and leave only frustration for the life you deserved, but never have been able to reach. The world you desire can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.'_

Ayn Rand's writing was so typically Rory. The objectivist philosophy, the monologues on morality and rationality, taking matters into one's own and perfectly capable hands, hope in the hopeless because yes, the hopeless had capable hands too. God, this passage reminded him so much of Rory that he swore if he closed his eyes, he could feel her climbing out from the book, feel her heartbeat against his chest.

The whole world in the palm of her hand; his entire heart too.

He had done possibly everything in the book to get her to hate him. He crashed her car and broke her wrist. He made her break up with her tree-like but perfect boyfriend. He refused to go to every Stars Hollow festival except for the Winter Carnival because, let's face it, he felt threatened by Dean, and the Bid-A-Basket Festival because, at that time, that was his only chance to have Rory all to himself.

It was so worth the $90, by the way.

During the short, tumultuous time that they were together, every date was as spontaneous, as unplanned, and as clumsy as his neurotic girlfriend would find it. He made a wonderful first impression with her grandmother with his black eye. He tried to force her to have sex with him at a kegger. He didn't take her to prom. He left her without a word – twice.

He was horrible, a monster. Lorelai hated him. Grandma Gilmore hated him. Shock. Rory's idiot father hated him too. Not to mention Lane and Paris. The whole population of Stars Hollow – which probably amounted to 20, but hey, it's still an entire town – also hated him.

But not Rory. He thought she did. But when he came back to see her, to give her a copy of his first book, she looked at him with those liquid blue eyes of hers that shone with so much happiness and pride that he was almost blinded.

She always believed he was destined for something greater.

He always thought he was destined for her.

He closed the book with a quick thump, and slipped it into the space beside "The Fountainhead" (her favorite book).

It felt like the whole world was conspiring against him to remind him of what, or who, he lost. This was ridiculous. Two years had gone by since the last time they had spoken. Evasion was easy. She trotted around the country to chase a presidential candidate. He stayed in Truncheon, and spent a few minutes of his holidays with Luke on the phone. He never went to Stars Hollow, paid rare visits at Liz's home to see his half-sister, Doula. A possible engagement between her mother and his uncle – the only father he ever had – loomed ominously like a dark cloud, but was still non-existent, non-palpable. He was still safe.

So why the multiple nudges from Neruda, Rand, and a bottle of shampoo?

"Done over there?"

He looked up, startled. "Yeah, sure. Is it six yet? I think I need coffee."

Chris raised his eyebrow. "But you hate coffee."

"I do."

"Uh…" he would have enjoyed the confusion in Chris' eyes if he wasn't so focused in his thoughts. "There's one more customer. Pretty girl, by the way. Totally your type."

He had a type? Huh. "Yeah? And just what is my type?" he asked, curious.

"Tall, thin, peculiar taste in books, amazing eyes."

The groan followed as soon as the words were out. Goddammit. So the whole world now included Chris and the said customer. He really needed that coffee now. Or a beer. Screw it, he needed a damn tequila.

"Could you finish up? This headache's driving me nuts."

"Okay…" Chris answered hesitatingly. "Are you asking her out? 'Coz I won't if you-"

"I'm not," he cut him off, stalking toward the front door. The last thing he needed was a girl who'd remind him of someone else, someone he lost two years ago to the most arrogant, most superficial, richest, blondest asshole.

He was done with this. He was done with her. He swore the last time he'll think of her was as soon as he finished his second book. Whenever that was.

"Hey Chris," he called out, as he grabbed his denim jacket. "You watched CNN lately?"

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

"Any idea where the Obama campaign is right now?"

"It's in Philly," came a quiet voice from behind him.

He whirled around in surprise, knocking a few books from the top of a display case to the floor. It was his first book – the one he dedicated to **her**.

Fate wasn't conspiring with him, he realized. The sonnet, the passage from "Atlas Shrugged," the sudden longing for coffee, they weren't ways of reminding him of her. It was fate's way of preparing him. Because after two years of zero contact, after two years of avoiding Connecticut, after two years of putting her on paper to help himself get on with his life,

She was here.


	3. Chapter 2: Kerouac

**A/N:** Okay, reviews are L-O-V-E, so let's start with that. **MissGoalie75**, OMG a fellow anime fan! I love your stuff! Photographs and Phrases was one of the four fics that inspired me to do this. Thank you! **Watram**, thanks. Those were my favorite lines too. I'll do my best to finish this within the year. Bear with me, 'kay? **Happy4sookie**, putting past references is my way of making this thing as believable as can be. I'm glad you noticed them. **NotThereNeverAround**, I love that poem. It's not closure, but Neruda insists it is. And I'm glad we both see that it's Rory who did the hurting last, not him.

Wow, this was harder than I thought. I actually scrapped an earlier, finished version of this because it was TOO DAMN HAPPY. Please remind me that this will be the last time I write a multi-chapter fic.

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine. The excerpt below was written by Jack Kerouac (but you already knew that). Beautiful prose. Slightly overused, but still perfect to describe the tragedy that is Jess. Sigh.

**No Other Way**

**Chapter 2: Kerouac**

Jess and Rory have coffee.

'_It no longer makes me cry and die and tear myself to see her go because everything goes away from me like that now — girls, visions, anything, just in the same way and forever and I accept lostness forever.'_

Her mouth had gone dry. It was so dry she could imagine it peeling to reveal raw flesh, like summer skin.

The first time Jess Mariano reentered her life, after breaking her wrist AND crashing the car dear Dean had built for her, the collar of the plain, navy jacket he wore was turned upward, insisting on looking as different and defiant as a navy jacket could do. His dark hair was spiked to the sky, but his dark eyes were unusually soft, downcast, uncertain. She kissed him.

The next time was a more than a year later. He had skipped town to be with his biological father and his family in Venice Beach, California. No warning about his leaving reached her ears, but the moment the bus he was on that day in Hartford left her stop, she knew she wasn't going to see him again. Not for a long time. When he came back several pounds lighter with disheveled hair, that clichéd James Dean leather jacket and those sad, sad eyes, she practically nailed her feet to the ground to keep from throwing herself into his arms. He said he loved her. She said no.

They met yet again, another two years later, when he visited her at Hartford to show her his book. A secondary, though completely unintentional, reason was to knock some sense into her when nobody else could. Up to this day, she has yet to tell anyone just what exactly made her pick herself up from her downward spiral and get on with **her** life. (Nobody would believe her anyway.) When she kissed him at Truncheon sometime later, she meant it to get back at Logan for what he did at Honor's wedding. What she didn't plan on was feeling the erratic speeding up of her heart and the intense heat pooling in her stomach in response to Jess' tongue sweeping across her mouth. She left flushed, confused and guilty as hell. Logan slept with an entire bridal party. She kissed Jess. Why did it feel like an infinitely bigger sin?

Oh god, and now he was here, right in front of her, hair falling casually over one eye. Her fingers itched to brush it away just to feel the familiar warmth of his cheek.

He cleared his throat uncertainly. "Did someone die?"

She tore her gaze away from his lips to settle on something safer – his eyes. She quickly noted the glint of suspicion. "I'm sorry. What?" she asked in confusion.

"We avoid each other for two years. Then, all of a sudden, you're here without warning. No email, no phone call, no text message. The only reason I can think of is…"

"That someone died," she grimaced, finishing the thought for him. "How awful. Of course everyone's alive and well – Mom, Luke, Lane and the gang, Kirk, Taylor-"

He smirked. Slightly. "Well that's just too bad. I was hoping someone must've given Taylor a heart attack by now. Not enough bad boys in Stars Hollow?"

"Sorry, the last crime was yours."

His upper lip (Stop staring at his mouth, Rory!) curled in disgust. "Huh. That town is worse than Pleasantville. It needs to be shaken up once in a while."

She smiled before she could stop herself. "Planning to grace us with your presence, Mariano?"

The look he gave her was one reserved for the mad. "God no," he scoffed. "I'm done with that psycho town of yours. You see, I live in a normal city now, with normal people. I'm happy."

She smiled again. "Well I live in a bus, and I'm happy too."

Silence settled between them because neither would talk after that. They held each other's gaze stubbornly – neither wanting to let go before the other.

"Why are you here?"

She blinked, automatically losing the staring match. "Um, the campaign trail led to Philadelphia and I follow Senator Obama as a part of my job so…"

His impatient sigh cut her off, while his steely gaze held hers, daring her to look away again. "Philly is more than 100 square miles wide. You could go anywhere you want. Why are you here – at Truncheon?"

Because it's been two years. Because I left you before I could kiss you back. Because I was wrong. Because Logan's been gone for a year and I still think about you more than him. Because I couldn't spend a single second in the whole state of Pennsylvania without you in my head. She had so many reasons, but her lips remained sealed to keep the words from spilling out.

"Rory…"

"I don't know," she blurted out in a whisper. She balled her hands at her sides, grabbing fistfuls of denim. She hated how he was so intense and she sounded so unsure. "Maybe it's all those 'Philadephia' road signs that made me think of you. After unloading our stuff at the motel, I turned down an invitation to this coffee shop my friend has been raving about. Next thing I know, I'm hailing a cab and I'm here."

He remained silent, choosing to silently communicate with her with his intense stare. The tiny amount of bravery responsible for her entering the shop quickly dissipated, leaving her frightened out of her wits and humiliated.

"I should go." A hand slowly gestured at the general direction of the heavy door. "I really don't know what made me come. Insanity? This was probably a mistake anyway. The only good thing coming out of all this is your knowledge that everyone in Stars Hollow is alive, which you could've gotten from Luke. What the heck am I-"

"Rory," he interrupted.

"The trail passed by Philly twice, and twice I was outside your door just staring. I never went in. Why did I have to break the pattern this time?"

"Rory," he tried again.

"I'll go!" she cried – very loudly more to convince herself than him. "I think I was hoping we could get coffee and catch up, but maybe we're too far gone for that. We'll pretend this never happened." Her body twisted away from his hand, which attempted to reach for her, and hurled herself toward the door that mocked her mere minutes ago. She yanked it open, but her fondness for him, her ultimate undoing, made her turn around one more time before making her (un)graceful exit.

He was leaning against a bookcase, a couple of the fallen books still in his hands. His gaze was soft, sad, confused, disappointed.

It was probably the same look she gave him when he left her the first time.

"I'm really sorry, Jess."

"Can I say something?" he asked calmly, firmly.

She shrugged as casually as her nerves would allow her.

"Don't go."

Two words. The blood in her arteries pounded in the sync with the rhythm of his words.

Don'tgodon'tgodon'tgodon'tgo….

It was like her heart was begging along with him.

She let the doorknob slip from her grasp. The finality of the thud the closed door made reverberated through the room.

This was it. Last chance to make good, Rory. Don't blow it.

Stay.

Her feet pulled her toward him and the haphazardly stacked books on the shelf. Before she knew it, she was helping him pick up the remaining books from the floor and rearranging the display.

Silence. Until she found the nerve to speak up again.

"When's your next novel coming out?"

He maintained his gaze on the books in front of him. "Once I'm done writing it. I'm in a bit of a funk."

"Oh." She carefully placed a rather large tome of poems of another would-be writer on a stand, and reached for other copies to arrange in a stack next to it. "Did you try going away for a while? For a change of scenery?"

"It's not actually a writer's block. It's more of…" he ran his fingers through his dark hair much like he used to back in Connecticut, when conversations were still easy, when their eyes meeting made them both smile up to their eyes, when light kisses punctuated each sentence recited to one other. They both changed a lot since then, but she felt comforted in the fact that Jess would still mess up his hair when nervous.

"A plot decision, I think."

"Well, you should tell me when it comes out so I can buy a million copies."

The tiny grin he gave her was unexpected but just as welcome. "That would help loads with the rent, thanks. But I have yet to find another publisher willing to make a million Mariano books."

"I'll make Mom buy one. And Luke, April, Lane, Paris…"

He laughed. "She'll hate it."

"Babette, Andrew, Kirk, Miss Patty-"

"Stars Hollow won't touch anything with my name on it."

"I'll even leave one on Taylor's doorstep and videotape his reaction when he sees it," she added with a smirk.

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. Pretty soon, he was smirking with her as they put the finishing touches on the book display. It looked even better than it did before he toppled it.

"You're on, Gilmore."

* * *

Fifteen minutes and a number of books later, the pair walked toward the register with each an armload of potential purchases.

Books. She'd erect an altar for them every time they bridged the miles-wide gap between her and Jess.

"Should I tip you?" she teased. "You've been really helpful."

He chose not to answer, instead, placing his pile on the counter and taking her smaller one and adding it to the first pile. Then, he hopped over the counter and rang in the purchases.

"You didn't have to buy another copy of 'The Subsect,' you know. I would've given you another one."

She smiled sweetly, taking out a pen from her bag and handing it to him. "Mom still won't believe you wrote a book. I want to show her the receipt proving it's more expensive than a box of donuts. And maybe the kind author can sign it, please?"

He promptly took the pen and proceeded to write a short note which she hoped her mother would not find insulting. A soft, scratching noise filled the room, to be interrupted by a third, foreign voice.

"You're still here?"

She assumed the tall figure with interesting hair was talking to Jess.

"Yeah. There was one more customer. Rory Gilmore, Chris Sutton," he droned while his hands gestured at each other impatiently.

"I think we've met before," she told Chris. "The open house?"

Recognition dawned on his face. "Rory Gilmore, right. Jess' Catherine."

She felt confused. "Catherine?"

"Wanna shut up now, Chris?" he gritted out. He shoved Rory's books into a large paper bag and slipped the receipt inside.

The color drained from his friend's face. "Sorry man. I thought she knew."

Just minutes ago, Chris was the stranger looking into her and Jess' world. Now, it was her, outside, trying to make sense of the looks each of the boys were giving each other, reading the subtext in their spoken words.

Who was Catherine?

Jess quickly locked the register with a small key from his pocket. He handed the bag to Rory while still ignoring her insistence on this mysterious name. "Close up, will ya? We're getting coffee."

"But you hate coffee!"

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer than what she would have liked. Not that she didn't like it. It was just… too much too soon.

"Ignore him," he breathed into her ear while propelling her out the door.

It wasn't hard, really. Once his breath hit her skin, she forgot about everything and everyone else. Together, they stepped out of the store, the bell above them ringing cheerfully in their wake.

* * *

"Black," he set a large mug in front her. He took a seat facing her, setting another mug opposite hers.

The bitter taste of her favorite drink quickly calmed her down. She sighed from sheer content. "This coffee is soooooo good," she gushed. "It makes up for that disgusting gunk they served us at Happy Valley."

He brought the mug to his lips to cover the growing smirk. "Happy Valley, huh? Well aren't you just the Pennsylvania native?"

She blushed at his quip, instantly recalling how she pretended, failed, to find her way around New York City a long time ago.

"You probably chose the wrong shop. That place is teeming with caffeine sources, believe me. It's surrounded by junkies like you." He cleared his throat nervously. "So," his eyes softened abruptly, "how do we do this?"

Answering his question required her to take another sip, a gulp actually, of her coffee, which was unfortunately still steaming. She yelped and fanned her mouth in front of an amused Jess for a good minute before finally calming down. The short distraction gave her enough time to sort her thoughts. "Well, I didn't exactly buy the guidebook, but from what I've heard from the experts, I think we discuss what happened in our lives during our absence – a lot considering it's been two years. Two hours won't even cover half of it."

"Yale education clearly excels."

She rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. "Let's start with something neutral. Like um… Mom and Luke."

He leaned forward, placing his chin on his clasped hands. "Wow. I'd like to ask you later what exactly 'neutral' means to you," he chuckled good-naturedly. "But okay, Luke and Lorelai. Luke tells me they're fine? He mentioned something about Christopher – your dad, right? – shaking things up a little while back."

Her fingers pulled at a loose thread on her jeans. She silently wondered why she even thought of bringing this up. Her mom and Luke had always been messy and complicated, even more so than her and Jess.

"When Mom found out about April and Anna, things started to go downhill, but I guess it was when she slept with Dad that cemented the breakup."

He whistled in surprise. "Wow, he failed to mention that. Jeez, how long did it take for them to start talking to each other again? The make-up sex must have been crazy."

"Ew!" she cried wildly, almost spitting out her coffee. "The mental image you just brought up is too disgusting for words. Oh my god. I think I threw up in my mouth. Take it back! Take it back!"

"Okay, okay," he laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "No throwing up. We'll turn back time a few seconds." People nearby had turned to peer curiously as the two, loud, young adults in the corner booth.

It felt a little like Stars Hollow, honestly.

"I'll start again. So they made up?"

"Around the time I went home after graduation. He made this crazy-huge tarpaulin to hang over the town square for my party."

"Oh yeah. Because that just screams romantic."

"He was being sweet!" she declared vehemently. "You haven't been at Stars Hollow lately enough to know that Luke has softened up his image. I'd like to think it's Mom's fault, but maybe having April also contributed a lot. Have you talked to her lately? She's adorable, really friendly and verbal. A complete Jess opposite."

"I'm sure," he muttered wryly. He carefully took another sip of his coffee. "So, how's the new job treating you?"

Her eyes shone immediately. Finally, a subject she could freely talk about without wincing. "It's amazing! We go from one city to the next town to listen to all these ideas from different people. And Senator Obama speaks so well," she added dreamily. "I want to talk to his writers."

"So I heard. Your coverage on his speech on overcoming racism? Brilliant."

She swore her heart, lungs and brain stopped at the mere thought that… "You read my blog," she managed to stammer while hiding face behind the gigantic coffee mug.

He simply nodded with a tiny smile. "It's honest, hard-hitting, but not biased. Your mastery of the language deserves attention."

Sincerity rushed from his eyes like huge ocean waves, only instead of pushing her out to sea, they pulled her toward him. Close. Closer.

She blinked, bringing her eyes to her lap once more. "Thanks," she mumbled. Her cheeks were tomato red, she was sure. She could tell from the way the heat radiated from her face. "It's nice to hear stuff like that from a fellow writer."

"Ah, but I write about trips to nowhere, chasing the elusive dream, exploring the meaning of life and all that jazz. You write about real stuff – the news as it happens. Which reminds me," he smirked as he leaned closer. "You dodged any cars driving straight at you with passengers screaming at a foreign language?"

A multitude of thoughts suddenly filled her head: Shakespeare, an apple from empty air, Guns of Brixton, a blue car, Christiane Amanpour, squealing tires, the rusty smell of blood, Elastica on stereo, cones. She never ate ice cream in a dish again.

"Sort of. Except they're screaming in English in different accents. And um, they're actually just crowds than cars so…" an awkward laugh escaped, cutting off the statement. "In retrospect, I guess it's nothing like what you said."

"But you're happy." It was more a question than a statement. Or maybe a plea: Please be happy, Rory. For god's sake, please tell the whole world you're fine.

"Yes. Very," she assured him with a smile. "Everything's perfect."

* * *

"Where are you staying?" he asked as he opened the door of his car for her.

"This motel at Roosevelt. It's actually pretty close." She slipped in, moving a small pile of books from the seat onto her lap. Neruda, The Dharma Burns, Poe and…

"Atlas Shrugged? You've been voluntarily reading 'crazy-Rand' without telling me at all?" she asked, amused, waving the thick book at his face. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

He started the car and eased it into the street. "Completely random pick, I swear. I have yet to recover."

She smiled at the neat handwriting gracing the margins of almost every page of the book. Back in Connecticut, she had several books with the same handwriting expressing a multitude of ideas from the same brilliant mind. She made a mental note to dig them up later when she got home.

"So…" he exhaled, sneaking a glance at her. "Anyone driving you crazy on trail? A Nazi resembling Paris? Ditzy journalist who's only interested in the sexual relations of politicians?"

She guffawed. "Are you kidding? Our bus is tiny and chock-full of people. Everyone drives me nuts. Mary's a ton of fun. She gets drunk easily but insists on hitting a bar in every city we stop by. Hannah's sweet and all, but catching her having loud phone sex with her boyfriend at three in the morning gave me nightmares and horrible daydreams for the next five days. Jeremy kind of reminds me of you."

"Yeah? He smokes? Great smile? Charming?" His dark eyes glinted dangerously. "Sex god?"

She playfully swatted his arm, her face flaming. "Flirt. He won't leave me alone."

"Ah, I remember. But that was only during the Dean Era. Not my best year, I confess, but I had a plan to stick to. You think he has a plan?"

"He's like that with every girl. I just ignore him." She shrugged. "He's better as a friend anyway. Mary says only desperate girls date huge flirts. I don't have the heart to tell her I dated one."

Jess carelessly waved his hand at her. "I'm not a huge flirt, if we're being accurate."

She bit her lip uneasily, then stared straight ahead. "I actually meant someone else."

"Oh."

Tense silence filled the car. She reached for the radio when he turned to speak to her. Their eyes collided.

"Luke told me."

Her eyebrow raised in askance.

"About the blond jerk," he elaborated. "Logan, was it? How you turned him down."

"Oh. That." Her eyes fell at her hands twisting on her lap. "It happened a long time ago, actually. He made me choose between my dream and being with him. He wanted me to move with him to California. Grow an avocado tree. You know how I've always wanted to travel."

He nodded.

"Well he didn't understand. He thought it was just one of those dreams that stays a dream. He didn't think I'd actually want to travel as a job. When I found out, I realized I couldn't say yes to him." She started to pick at a scab on her thumb, which she got on a paper cut a few days back. The sharp sting made her wince in pain. "I can't marry someone who doesn't support me, who would make me sacrifice my dream."

"You shouldn't settle."

A sigh escaped her lips. "I didn't. I said no." She realized that after telling this story a number of times, it hurt less. When she first told her mother all her reasons (she made a pro-con list to further justify her decision) for turning down Logan's marriage proposal, she lost so much tears Lorelai actually considered bringing her to the hospital to hook her up to some IV fluids. When she met Hannah and Lee a few months later, she told the same story over lunch at In & Out. She was proud to note that no tears were involved that time.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I'm over Logan," she said with an air of finality. "What we had was special, but it wasn't something that was meant to last longer than it did. I'm now traveling around the country being happy, doing what I love."

"Dodging crowds running at you, screaming in English."

"Yes," she laughed. "Exactly."

"Then good for you, Miss Gilmore."

"Thanks," she murmured. "For doing this: talking, coffee. It's just been so long. I missed you."

He gave her a slight smile. "Yeah, two years of not talking kinda does that to you. Next time," he looked at her pointedly, "don't wait that long to find me, okay?"

Oh god, he was forgiving her. He held out his battered heart to her two years ago and she threw it back for Logan's shinier one. And now, here he was accepting her back into his life. Risking more heartache to make peace with her.

"So you're okay with this? Talking and stuff? Keeping contact?"

She had to be sure.

"I'm okay, yeah. Don't obsess over it, Rory." He carefully maneuvered the car into a narrow parking space in front of the motel she was staying at. The car puttered to a stop.

"It's just… we're always breaking each other's hearts – with all the screaming, lying, running. I thought… I thought you'd sworn me off for good."

"I tried. Believe me, I did. But we keep on popping up in each other's lives anyway. Honestly? It killed me the first few times because it hurt too much. But over time, the pain just dulled, you know? And you and I just kept coming back. It's insane."

"It is," she agreed after mulling over it. "Like weeds. Or dandelions."

"What?"

"Dandelions. They're weeds, but prettier. Pretty weeds."

He gave her an odd look. "Right. I just… learned to accept that this is who we are. Me, you," he gestured at the air around them, "this. It's not perfect, but it doesn't kill me anymore."

Loneliness. Fear. Confusion. And hurt. He was thrown life curveballs from every direction imaginable. He'd take a swing, or dodge each time, and got hit anyway. Again and again, the bruises marred him as he valiantly fought back. Through time, he knew better. He eventually dropped the bat, defiantly stuck out his chin, and welcomed each hit as it came. And now, here he was, more broken and more at peace than she'd ever seen him.

Jess Mariano embraced the tragedy of his life and wrote a book about it. It was beautiful.

"Shall we go?" he interrupted her thoughts.

Nod. Open car door and step out into the cool, spring air. Walk slowly to prolong time. (Stop moving so fast, Rory. What good will time slowing down do if you race through everything?)

Blue eyes stared dumbly at the wooden door painted a very artificial red that quickly materialized in front of her. Silently, she cursed her damn body for being programmed to move so fast when loaded with caffeine.

Her time with Jess was over. It was time to go. Disappointed, she reached for the knob of the door of her room when his hand gently covered hers.

"Rory?"

Hope. She felt it slowly seeping back into her bones. "Yeah?"

"You're right. Two hours and coffee wasn't enough to cover two years."

The smile spread promptly before caution could contain it.

"You free for dinner tomorrow?"

She answered quickly because if she dwelled too much, mulling over it, she knew she'd get cold feet.

"Sure."

The confident smirk reappeared. Suddenly, it felt like she was seventeen again, with powdery snow brushing against heated cheeks, and afternoons spent kissing on the couch above the diner.

"Seven sounds good?"

"Seven sounds great. Where are we going?"

He grinned. "I know a place."


	4. Interlude: Hemingway

**A/N:** OMG, all your reviews make me cry, I swear. Thanks so much for the feedback. It makes me think I'm doing something right here. **MissGoalie75**, finally! Someone who noticed it too! It really bugs me that she never told Lorelai because if she did, Lorelai would finally see Jess as the good guy that he really is. And Rory won't jump him because I SAY SO. The plot must be preserved! LOL. **BlueOwlGrey**, it's a Lit mess and we all know it's this kind of mess that we love. **Watram**, I think it's more than just confidence in his skills. I'm pretty sure Jess delivers. **PorcelainHeart94**, I don't mind a non-deep review! The ones I mention are the ones that I just HAD to respond to because whatever they/you said made my fingers itch to reply. I'm so sorry you thought that! All reviews make me squee, believe me. I've been squeeing non-stop for a month.

This was not originally in my plan, but I really wanted to try something different. Majority of this chap takes place around 6x18. Just to further confuse you for my own amusement, I wrote from all three Truncheon guys' perspectives. You can kill me later.

**Disclaimer:** The Gilmore-verse was, is and never will be mine. Neither is Hemingway's work.

**No Other Way**

**Interlude: Hemingway**

Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy and girl fall out of love. Boy attempts to cope. Boy fails miserably.

'_For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.'_

He stared at the closed door, breathed in traces of her perfume. So this was what it felt like to be left behind. A new experience, he could honestly say. He did most of the running away during his teen years. He did it a lot of times, a number of heart-wrenching ways. It's amazing Rory didn't kill herself.

He certainly would have.

"I love him," she says.

She might as well stabbed a knife into his heart. It would've hurt less.

He dragged his feet up the stairs (his body suddenly felt so exhausted) and into their "balcony," Matthew insists, which was actually a fire escape with a folding chair. Trembling fingers ripped the plastic off a box of cigarettes.

Chris hated it when he smoked.

Well whatever. Chris can go fuck himself for all he cared.

Nicotine filled his lungs and throat, calming him down. He inhaled greedily, hoping to erase the sweet taste Rory Gilmore left in his mouth.

No. Step one is to stop saying her name.

He valiantly tried to master step one. Lost track of time, lost track of how many sticks burned up in his hand. He stared dully at the now empty box.

Empty. Dark. Ache. Lost. Alone. No her. Just him, him, him.

Words, words started to dance before his eyes. He grabbed a pen and wrote furiously in a little notebook he kept in his jacket. He vaguely heard a door bang, laughter and drunken singing, his name being called. The lights outside went out one by one, the stars slowly faded into midnight, the sun rose above cement and steel, but he wrote, wrote and wrote until his eyes ached, his fingers grew stiff, until his heart bled.

It was only when loathsome exhaustion took over did he stop.

* * *

"_Hey! Budding Author's back!" Matthew cried in unabashed glee._

_Chris sat up and muted the television. "So how's Connecticut? Still boring, I assume?"_

_Jess gave him a look. "What happened to Jessie? Sal? James Dean? Or my personal favorite, Tortured Writer?"_

_Matthew grinned while handing him a beer. "You're published, and begging bookstores to stock you. 'Budding Author' sounds more appropriate, don't you think?"_

"_Besides," Chris added, "'Tortured Writer' will make a huge comeback as soon as you're miserably writing your next book."_

_Jess made a face, but said nothing, choosing, instead to glare at his beer._

"_Sure, be in character, why don't you."_

_Jess ignored Matthew's constant pokes at his shoulder. God, this guy was like a stupid puppy overdosed on sugar. Did he have an off button somewhere?_

"_Alright, we've hit a dead end," Chris intoned with false solemnity. "Let's backtrack. How's Connecticut? New Haven?" He looked at Jess, morbidly curious. "How was Yale?"_

_Jess sputtered on his beer, and blanched at him. "Who said I went to Yale?"_

_Matthew shook his head from pity. "Man, you went straight for the beer the second you got back. It's obvious you saw __**her**__._

"_So, how is she?"_

_Jess twirled the empty bottle before carefully placing it on the counter. He grabbed another one. "I don't know."_

"_But you saw her," Matthew needled._

_He blew out a breath in frustration. "I don't know who I saw. She had her hair, her eyes, that smile, but that's about it. She's wearing ridiculously expensive clothes, dating some stupid guy with a Porsche and a trust fund. Lives with Emily Gilmore in Hartford, and refuses to talk to Lorelai. Dropped out of Yale…" He started chugging on the bottle in an attempt to drown his thoughts. The bitter liquid vanished quickly. "Spends her nights in yuppie bars. No frickin' book in her purse. That's not Rory. Rory's nothing like that."_

_Chris shrugged. "People change. I'm sure you're not the same person she said no to years ago."_

_Matthew looked unimpressed with Chris' jab at the "unspeakable past," Jess could tell from the glares he was shooting at their taller friend. They all had a couple of those moments – times in their young lives they never wish to relive, hence, are forbidden to be brought up in conversation._

"_Rory can change all she wants. But she's not Rory without her ambition. It's always what I… what-" he trailed off uncertainly as he stared at the empty bottle before him._

_His two friends waited patiently for him to continue._

_Jess took a shaky breath. "What I loved about her."_

_

* * *

_"What did he say her name was again?"

Chris looked up from his beer to fix his prying friend a warning glare. "Leave it well alone."

"Oh come one! She's his Rosa! Remember her?"

Oh Rosa, and her long, curly hair and almost-black eyes. How could he not remember her?

"His Jenny, or Melinda. I forget who hurt me more. Every guy has that sort of girl, and Miss Blue Eyes? She's his. Point is, she's back and they're in Truncheon." His eyebrows raised in suggestion. "Alone. Aren't you interested in any of this?"

"Don't make me lie."

Matthew hissed in frustration. "Just tell me what her name is so I stop calling her 'Blue Eyes' to her face."

"I think it's Rory. Gilbert, Garrison or something." It was a street, he thought. He did all these mental exercises to remember names. But there was something in Jess' eyes when he introduced her that completely threw him off.

It was the same look Matthew had for Jenny – because everyone knew that Jenny hurt him more than Melinda could ever dream of.

He had that look too. With Rosa.

"You think she wants him back?"

Chris tried to picture the pretty girl with the rosy blush on her cheeks stammering about Rand while Jess poorly attempted to mask his joy with disgust at her literary tastes. He tried to recall if her eyes mirrored the sparkle in his.

"You think we should stay over at Mike's and let them have their fun?"

He frowned in thought. "No need."

While Jess' gaze held only adoration. Rory had something else. Something infinitely different.

Something that made his stomach clench when he saw it once in Rosa's eyes.

It was guilt.

* * *

"_I need a beer."_

_Jess looked up from his desk, that stupid smirk automatically forming. "Uh oh. This doesn't sound too good."_

"_Shut up, Tortured Writer, and let me wallow." He kicked his shoes off and stomped to the fridge where Matthew, good ol' Matthew, held out an icy beer._

"_You're home early. Rosa had a gig?"_

"_Nah." Fingers tightly gripped the bottle in anger. Nosy nosy nosy. This was why he never had roommates in college. Always stole your shampoo, your favorite books, poked their noses into personal lives and sock drawers._

_Jess snorted. "Fight," he concluded. "It's too obvious."_

_Matthew shot him a glare. "Will it kill you to be nice?"_

_He rolled his eyes at both of them. The bitter taste of beer settled at the back of his throat like bile. The urge to throw up suddenly became overwhelming. He bit the inside of his cheek. "We're done. She's fucking someone else. Only told me after a month."_

_The two quickly shut up, and left him to down the rest of his alcohol. He reached into the fridge for another one._

"_You'll find someone else," Jess finally said after his third, maybe fourth bottle._

_Bitter laughter bubbled out of his mouth. "Right. Like you did."_

_The smirk immediately vanished. His jaw tightened as he bent back over whatever that was he was working on. "Just drink your damn beer."_

_Satisfied that he struck a nerve, he swallowed the remaining drops of his drink and threw the bottle in the bin. "Done. Thanks Matt, Jessie. Now I don't feel like jumping off a ledge anymore."_

"_Fuck you, Chris."_

_He waited for a similar expletive from his other roommate – the broody one. But all he got was stony silence._

_He shook his buzzed-up head and headed for his room._

* * *

"This is a bad idea," he stubbornly insisted, arms crossed.

Chris simply shrugged at him. "Stop being a damn girl. It helped me through Vivienne."

"And Barbara, Kelly, Brina, and Amanda," he continued in a sing-song voice. God, and Chris said he had a short attention span.

"Don't forget Jan and cute, little Margie," piped in Mike.

Theo groaned into his drink. "You're a fucking manwhore, Chris."

"Well I'm just trying to help here. I'll start."

"But you'll never finish!" he whined while waving his beer in Chris' face. The yellow liquid sloshed from the tall glass and showered all over the peanuts causing Mike and Theo to yelp in protest.

"As I was saying," Chris pressed on, oblivious. "I'll start. Anna."

"Another girl?" Matthew asked, baffled at yet a new name to add to Chris' already long list of girlfriends.

"Anna," he repeated. "Kept wearing my shirts to turn me on. Except they weren't my shirts."

Jess turned pale as he stared at Chris in horror. "Please tell me she doesn't have some skin disease or fleas."

At least he was looking less glum. That was good.

Damn Chris. Always right about everything.

"Melinda," he weakly offered (for the sake of friendship), ignoring the small pang in his chest. "Shoves my books off my bed, onto the floor before going to sleep."

Theo whistled in pity. "I feel for you, man."

He loved having writers and editors for friends.

Mike took a big gulp before contributing to the conversation. "Sarah cooks food that tastes like rat poison but force feeds me the shit anyway."

Theo nodded sagely. "You gotta trust him on that one. I tried her mac and cheese, and almost died. Anyway, Corrie. Always cries after sex."

Chris made a face. "Jan does that too."

All faces turned toward Jess who had yet to share. He uncomfortably shot a look at Matthew, begging him to cover for him.

Matthew, usually the prick, but always the good friend. He knew what Chris and Jess called him behind his back.

But they always turned to him when they needed help.

He took a deep breath. "Jenny always calls me Matt because she knows I hate it. But I let her do it anyway. I knew it was over when she called me 'Matthew' in our last fight."

He called a waitress over and asked for tequila. The others shot nervous glances at each other, which he tried very hard to ignore.

"Sorry. Only had two girlfriends. I had to mention Jenny."

Chris patted him firmly on the back. "We all have girls like Jenny."

"Shane," Jess muttered. "Forgets to spit out her gum before making out."

His friend's reply made his eyes bug out in surprise. Maybe he was going to be alright after all.

Mike guffawed in delight. "Did your tongues stick together, or did you accidentally swallow her gum?"

Jess ignored him and continued to sip his beer.

He tugged at Chris' sleeve. Chris nodded in silent reply. "Kelly tried to sleep with these two guys when she found out I wasn't home.

Matthew grimaced at the memory of the curvy blond making eyes at both him and Jess as they thought of a million ways to get her out of their apartment. Eventually, Jess came up with the brilliant idea that a huge sewer rat climbed up the stairs to the apartment and was running about, and they had yet to kill it, but that was only after he had already falsely confessed (through gritted teeth) to Kelly that he and Jess were gay, and had waited months for Chris to leave to finally act on their pent-up desires.

He secretly thinks Jess still hasn't forgiven him for this.

Said friend glared at him above the rim of his glass. Around them, the conversation continued, punctuated by loud laughter and lots of hooting.

* * *

"_He's been in there for a week."_

"_He's writing."_

"_Writing what? His last will and testament?" He's going to kill himself!"_

"_Stop exaggerating. It's helping him. You saw what the first book did for him. It was therapeutic."_

"_This book looks a lot longer. He has to finish it soon, or he'll starve."_

"_He'll be fine."_

"_She better not come back."_

"_She probably will. They can't help it."_

"_He's going to fucking kill himself if she comes back. God, how many times do they have to break each other before getting it right?"_

"_As many as it takes."_

* * *

Mike drunkenly went on about how Everly was "The One," while Theo continued to roll his eyes at him.

Matthew wanted to drop the topic and return to a lighter one, like the collection of dirty limericks this skeeze handed him the other day, for possible publishing. Right.

He tried to catch Chris' eye, but he was too busy moping about Rosa as he nursed his nth glass of tequila.

"We should head home," he mumbled at Jess.

Sad, dark eyes peered underneath messy hair. What a portrait. He definitely earned the nickname, "Tortured Writer." But now wasn't the time for teasing, he reminded himself.

When Jenny left his heart in pieces three months ago, Jess and Chris dutifully helped him back on his feet.

It was his turn to be the Good Samaritan.

"Let's go, Jessie," he insisted, dragging his miserable friend off his chair.

Jess banged his empty glass on the table. Mike ignored the noise and rambled on.

"She loves Logan," he spat out in utter disgust. "Piece of work, that guy. Slept with a slew of girls, yet she still chooses him."

He leaned heavily against Matthew, (thank god Jess wasn't a giant) as the two stumbled toward the door. Chris hurriedly threw a couple of bills on the table and rushed to help him.

"I get a GED, but he graduates from fucking Yale. I get a job publishing and writing books, but he manages a damn newspaper company."

The three manage to make it to sidewalk. Only a couple of blocks down.

"I thought Rory was different," he ranted on. "I thought those kinds of things didn't matter to her. I thought…" He stumbled on a corner of the sidewalk sticking out. A string of curses automatically rang out of the three friends' mouths.

"I thought," he whispered, his voice shaking dangerously, broken, "I'd get one more chance. Because I was ready this time. Because I'm done running way."

The door to Truncheon loomed above them like a promise. Chris pulled out a bunch of keys from his coat pocket and proceeded to open the million locks they put to prevent a robbery.

Why they even thought that anyone would rob their shop was beyond Matthew's understanding.

They stumbled up the narrow stairway and collapsed on the couch in the living room. Chris groaned into his hands.

"We're all having a massive hangover in the morning. We have work tomorrow. What the hell were we thinking drinking all that shit?"

Matthew made a small noise in agreement.

"Rosa."

They both turned to Jess in surprise.

"You were thinking about Rosa. Not Amanda, or Kelly, or Viv. Because everyone knows you love only Rosa. Mike's probably still blubbering over Everly. Matthew and dear Jenny. Theo and Mandy." He took a deep breath.

"Then, there's Rory and Jess."

He closed his eyes, as if admitting defeat.

"Because there will always be Rory and Jess."

_

* * *

He perches himself at the edge of the rooftop, like the hunched over figure of a gargoyle overlooking Paris._

_Garbage boy puts garbage bag in garbage truck. Serious man wearing non-descript suit, carrying non-descript suitcase walks briskly to catch the early train to work. Tired mom juggles pesky son, lazy husband and cranky baby with her croissant sandwich and morning coffee._

_Everyone goes on with his/her lives. Including Rory – Rory and her pretty clothes, pretty car, pretty boyfriend._

_But not him. He can't move._

_He can hardly even breathe._

* * *

"You should get heartbroken more often. It helps pay the bills."

"Fuck you," Jess replied without looking up from the papers scattered on his desk, his ink-smeared fingers flying with a pen in hand to keep up with the jumbled words forming in his brain.

"You have a plot?" Chris asked.

"Yes. Unoriginal. Tired, even. It will remind you of a story you've heard over and over again in this apartment from three different people. It's been written a million times, but I don't care. I can tell my editor to go fuck himself if he says so."

His friend chuckled. "Maybe he will, while holding your precious manuscript in his other hand."

Not the mental image he needed right now. He cringed. "Don't you have work?" he asked pointedly.

Chris shrugged. "I won't have to if this new book of yours makes it to Amazon's Best-seller."

"You better start working then."

Chris ignored him. "So I'm guessing your main character's this brooding author who got stuck in a crazy town, and he meets the single sane person – lovely girl, I'm sure – in said crazy town, who shares his passion for books, likes the same authors.

"Hardly. Rand? Please."

"You have a name for the lovely heroine?"

His eyes settled on Wuthering Heights. She gave him her copy upon finding out that he read Austen, Bronte (Charlotte, the more popular sister), Gaskell and Eliot. He read it a million times, not caring if people beside him looked at him strangely.

He thought of a tale of two people separated by parents and grandparents, friends, society, rules, circumstance. He thought of a love story doomed from the start – of a girl choosing what was expected of her, and a broken boy left alone to destroy whatever it was she didn't leave in pieces.

He thought of sunny smiles, eyes like water, and kisses that tasted like summer rain (so rare to come by, but always welcome).

His heart started to ache again. Or maybe it had been aching for a very long time, and he was only reminded of it now.

"Catherine," he answered. "I think 'Catherine' pretty much sums up everything."


	5. Chapter 3: Bukowski

**A/N:** I recently discovered something epic in ffnet (private messaging), which, I've been informed, has been here for ages. I fail, yes. All replies to your awesome reviews will go to your inbox for shorter author's notes. Who reads ANs anyway, am I right? As for **BlueOwlGrey** (no PM, how come?), I channeled the emotions in that chapter from my own heartache. I loved how it kind of reminded you of yours.

Ugh, this story is becoming too long for me. This was supposed to be a three-parter with this being the last, buuuuuuut I just had to add a flashback chapter and prolong the story to further torture myself. I hope, for all our sakes, that I eventually finish this. And I scrapped a previous version (again!) because Rory's POV just didn't do it for me. I swear I'm driving myself to insanity.

**Disclaimer:** If Gilmore Girls was mine, I would've done things differently.

**No Other Way**

**Chapter 3: Bukowski**

Another chance to screw it up. Another chance to make it right.

'_little dark girl with kind eyes  
when it comes time to  
use the knife  
I won't flinch and  
I won't blame you,_

_instead  
I will remember the kisses  
our lips raw with love  
and how you gave me  
everything you had  
and how I  
offered you what was left of me,_

_our bodies spilled together  
sleeping  
the tiny flowing currents  
immediate and forever  
your leg my leg  
your arm my arm  
your smile and the warmth  
of you  
who made me laugh again.  
little dark girl with kind eyes  
you have no knife.  
the knife is  
mine and I won't use it  
yet.'_

There's this scene in "(500) Days of Summer" where, after sleeping with Summer for the first time, Ted (our hero) walks out into the streets of L.A. surrounded by a crowd wearing nothing but blue clothes. They get crazy with an overly-happy song and some cheesy dancing. For the rest of the movie, however, blue is a color reserved only for Summer, the love interest with, yup you guessed it, blue eyes.

God, he hated that movie.

He did, however, love the blue scene. For obvious reasons.

He leaned casually against the doorframe as another pair of blue eyes regarded his brown ones. "You should've just let me pick you up."

Damn. Did that sound too date-ish?

She blinked, her long, dark lashes fluttering down and up. Zooey D had nothing against Rory, really. He could go on and on about how Rory looked infinitely perfect compared to Summer. He could write a whole book out of it.

"Oh, it's fine. I wanted to come over anyway. The classics section needs more browsing."

But yeah, he wasn't done with his book yet so…

Christ, all this thinking was going to drive him insane one day.

"Knock yourself out. I'll, uh-" he gestured toward the back where a manuscript was waiting to be edited. "Finish something."

But she'd already bounded toward their favorite section.

He shook his head with a tiny smile, then, headed for his makeshift office.

* * *

"Find anything interesting?"

Shining blue eyes (again, with the blue) and a bright smile met him as she held a thick hardbound, front cover facing him.

"The Holy Barbarians. Nice. But you already have that."

Puffs of air escaped her pursed lips. "I think I lent it to someone and it never found its way home."

"That sucks," he agreed.

"It's too bad, really. You had a lot of margin notes in there." Her cheeks reddened adorably as she characteristically rushed into more conversation to hide her embarrassment. "I was trying to find a Kerouac book before you came. Kerouac always comes to mind when we talk. Paris even refers to you as 'Jack' sometimes. I'm not really sure if it's just a joke. Anyway, a book of his you can recommend? With more prose?"

He rapped his knuckles against the wood in thought. "Ah, I got it." Fingers ran across several spines before stopping at one and pulling it out. "The Subterraneans. Depressing love story within the artists' circle. Rambling sentences full of purple prose and minimal periods."

"Sounds perfect. Thanks."

"And might I suggest something?"

"Wow, you're really living the sales talk. I've already spent more money here than at a Barnes and Noble."

He wisely ignored her crack, and handed her a thick paperback. "Matthew came across this book of Bukowski, since you're planning on rereading him. It's all poems, but it's really good. You'll like it."

"Thanks." She flipped it open and picked a random page.

"The goldfish sing all night with guitars,  
and the whores go down with the stars,  
the whores go down with the stars."

An eyebrow raised at him.

He laughed lightly. "Hand it over."

She complied. His eyes browsed down the table of contents until he found something he liked. His fingers turned the pages until he reached the one he was looking for.

"there's a bluebird in my heart that  
wants to get out  
but I'm too tough for him,  
I say, stay in there, I'm not going  
to let anybody see  
you."

Her cheeks turned red, much like every other time he read her poetry she liked.

"So?" he inquired as if it wasn't obvious.

She smiled through her blush, reaching for the newly appreciated book. "I'll give it a second chance."

"Good."

"Yo Jess! Phone call," called Matthew.

"Coming," he answered as Matthew appeared from behind a shelf. "Could you punch these in?" he asked, pointing to Rory's books.

"Sure." Matthew led Rory to the counter, while he strolled to their makeshift office in the back where the phone was.

"'Lo," he mumbled into the mouthpiece, fingers tugging at dark hair.

"Jess, hi," answered a gruff voice that took him miles away – to a small diner feeding a town-full of crazies. Fuzzy background noise consisted of a female voice, possibly Lane, arguing with someone, clanging of pots and pans, and Kirk enunciating. Was he reciting the Pledge of Allegiance?

He shook his head.

"Luke," he acknowledged.

"How are things?"

"Good." He paused. "My second book's still stuck, though," he added as a compromise. Luke hated monosyllable Jess. Actually, everyone he knew hated monosyllable Jess except maybe Liz – if she was drunk, because, then, she loved him.

"That's too bad," he sighed. "Listen."

Nice segue.

"I was talking to Lorelai earlier. She mentioned the Obama campaign trail being in Philadelphia."

He didn't even bother to be casual, the ass. It was obvious whom he was referring to.

"It is. Obama has a speech tomorrow at nine. After that, they're leaving for Pittsburg for a rally."

"Oh. You got that from the internet?"

"Nah. A certain internet column writer might have told me."

That silenced him for a few seconds. Jess mildly considered the possibility that he had dropped the phone in shock.

"Luke?" he checked.

"She's there? Rory?"

He peeked out the door to spy a flash of pale blue cotton and dark brown hair near the counter. "Yeah. She's here."

"What's she doing there, Jess?"

"Buying a book. Well, books, if we're being accurate."

"Jess," he huffed. Though miles apart, Jess could almost see his eyebrows knitting together in exasperation.

"I don't know," he sighed. "She was here yesterday and we went out for some coffee. We're having dinner later."

"You're what? Jess, she's single."

"For a year," he reminded Luke. "I know. Richie Rich left her on her graduation day."

"Exactly. And you're single. You know this is a bad idea."

He exhaled in frustration. Partly confusion. "We're fixing this, okay?"

"By taking her to dinner? How is this fixing?"

"Listen, you and Lorelai are doing really well. Someday, you'll ask her to marry you because you'd rather burn all your baseball caps than be proposed to like a girl a second time. Then, I'm betting my life, because I'm just that sure, that she's making Rory her bridesmaid. Since you hate me less, as proven by this long-distance call, you're inviting me to said lovely wedding."

Luke snorted. "Who said I'd invite you?"

"So, " he pressed on, "in front of every prying pair of eyes in Stars Hollow, not to mention Emily Gilmore, we'll be forced to interact without killing each other."

"You've thought this through."

"Maybe she came to sign a peace treaty, I don't know. All I know is she's here. Now. We had coffee because we wanted to catch up. I asked her to dinner because I wanted her to know this was okay. We're okay. So stop worrying."

"Okay," he finally answered after a long pause. "But be careful."

"Luke, I won't hurt her, if that's what's eating at you."

"It's not her, Jess. I've seen what she's done to you. You're doing so well now."

He rolled his eyes. What the hell? Rory was right. Luke had gone soft. "Well, this chat has been nice, but I gotta go. Thanks, Uncle Luke."

"Alright," he conceded. "Bye Jess."

Weird. Though he couldn't stop smiling at the unexpected concern from his uncle.

Rory met him at the door with her purchases pressed against her chest and a twinkle in her eyes. "Matthew wants you to know how you brainwashed me into liking Beat."

He shrugged at his brunette friend. "Sorry man. No brainwashing involved. Rory's 100% weird."

"Hey!" she protested with a cry.

Matthew's amused laugh rang out. "I think I'm beginning to understand the allure, but maybe it's just her way of persuading with pretty words. Go ahead man. I'll close up. Nice talking to you, Rory."

"You too, Matt," she returned with a smile.

Matthew gave the two a small wave before returning to his previous activity of counting cash from register. Jess couldn't ignore the smug grin on his face – like he figured out something important.

Something that probably involved a certain Gilmore girl.

"He let you call him Matt. He hates being called Matt. Nearly took Chris' eye out with a fork after he called him that the first time."

She smirked at him, and god, he loved how her mouth curved when she did it. "But Chris didn't smile like I did when he called him Matt. After that, I was pretty much free to call him whatever I wanted."

"You used the female charm card on the poor guy. Evil, evil woman," he accused her.

"That and the friendly card. He seems nice. Maybe a bit more tightly-wound than Chris."

"That's putting it mildly. He's the human version of Paris because your friend is clearly from outer space. And you're right. Chris is chill. And a shameless flirt, like your Jeremy."

"We're comparing friends. This is so cute!"

He rolled his eyes. "So," he said after they slid into his car and pulled out of his parking space. "What exactly did you talk about?"

Her gaze redirected from him toward the scene outside the window. Truthfully, he became a little worried. "Nothing much," she mumbled.

Already a seasoned liar at ten, he knew when someone was lying. From the choice of words (always the first sign) down to the tone of the voice. Little-miss-perfects always got the latter wrong.

"You know, your voice says it was big. Huge."

A quiet sigh escaped her lips. "You'll regret asking this."

"Try me, Gilmore."

"Catherine, Jess. We talked about Catherine."

* * *

"_Hey Chris, can I ask you something?" he asked through a mouthful of toast._

_Chris looked up from the thick bundle of sheets he was perusing to regard Jess with his spectacle-covered eyes. "Sure."_

_Matthew, casually sipping a cup of tea, listened on in interest._

"_Does Catherine seem a bit too… perfect for you?"_

"_Huh?"_

"_You know, too perfect to be human."_

_Matthew started to laugh at the idea he was getting from Jess' question._

_Jess shot him a look that said he was not amused._

_Chris just smiled serenely. "I get what you're saying. Readers prefer flawed people in the novels they read. Makes them relate to your characters easier. If you think your Catherine is too perfect, she probably is. Try thinking again, about your inspirations, those people you based her off on. You probably missed a few flaws. Dig up a few unhappy memories. It may help."_

"_Find those scraps of paper you wrote on after Rory left you for that Yale guy. What was his name?" Matthew asked._

"_Logan," Jess responded dully._

"_Yeah," Matthew affirmed with a nod. "That guy she wanted to cheat on with you, right?"_

* * *

Matthew always had the big mouth. Like Chris had the big hair and Jess was… well, Jess. Damn Matthew. Didn't he get that some things just weren't his fucking business?

Dammit.

"Why haven't you finished it?"

So they were hitting the hard stuff tonight, huh? Seemed a bit early considering they only started reconnecting after a grand total of two years of silence for a mere 24 hours. He wasn't even done updating her on the status of Truncheon (Their bookstore was growing. They now published five books a year.), or how Jimmy was doing. Were they seriously going to talk about their past relationship now? Their mistakes? All those hurt feelings?

Stony silence answered her hesitant query. But the journalist he knew she had in her knew better than to give up. Though more stubborn than her usual interviewees, Marianos eventually gave up if prodded enough.

She touched his arm, causing him to stiffen. His long fingers curled tightly around the shift stick.

Or if they were touched like that, yeah. That usually worked too.

"Jess?"

"I'm at a fork," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Somehow, he always fucking took the road labeled "Rory."

"Part of me says it's time to write the end. Another part wants me to really finish it. But that requires more months holing up in my room to write several chapters of what I've yet to figure out."

"You talk to Matthew about your novel?"

"I ask him for advice sometimes. Actually, I ask Chris for advice. Matthew's just there."

"Why Chris?"

He spared her a glance. "Matthew's the poet guy." Obviously.

"You talked to them about your plot problem?" she persisted. Jesus, a pesky journalist, this girl. "What did Chris say?"

"Says I should end it. Book critics these days prefer non-endings. It feeds the imagination of the readers, or whatever bullshit they're spouting."

"If you end it, Catherine walks away, right? And Emelio's left alone, like he was alone at the beginning. He goes back to his previous state and everything that happened will have done nothing."

"Wow, was I on the phone that long?" he sassed. They needed to return to neutral territory fast. Like Lily's boy troubles. Or Paris' adventures in med school. Or even Miss Patty. "Did he read you the whole manuscript?"

"He told me the important parts. Like how you started writing again when you got home last night."

He swore he was going to kill the idiot as soon as he got home. "Matthew clearly needs to learn when to shut up."

"It sounds unfinished if you end it like that. Like you're offering a sequel."

"No thanks. Maybe I'll just burn the whole thing."

"I think they deserve a real end."

"What do you know?" he finally exploded. Damn her and her all-knowing bullshit. Sure he wrote the story with her initially in mind. Sure Catherine was educated, sweet, ambitious and had the most amazing pair of eyes. Sure one didn't have to possess more than half a brain to figure out the story was theirs.

But it was more than that. It was more than her. It was him, strangers, enemies, not friends, beaches, fear, every damn book he had ever read, light rainfall, lonely nights, getting lost, rules and breaking them, honesty, love (though he was no poet), hate, apathy and oh the universe and everything in between.

Contrary to popular belief, his world did not revolve around her. This wasn't Stars fucking Hollow.

"I wrote the story, okay? It's mine. Emelio, Catherine, I created them in my head. They came from me. Stop pretending you know better, Rory, coz you don't. You don't know these characters!"

She smiled sadly as she turned once more toward the window. "But I do."

Their destination loomed ahead. He slowed down as the bitter taste of bile rose in his throat.

"We're here," he said through clenched teeth. He moved to open his door, but her hand on his arm again stopped him in his tracks

"Jess, please."

He tried to shake it off. But his movements were halfhearted. "Forget it Rory."

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"I heard."

"Please, we've gone our separate ways on a bad note too many times. Yesterday was fun. Tonight's supposed to be Fun: Part Two. I was hoping we'd at least stay friends this time."

"Yeah, well you're not alone. But you had to go poking your head into the restricted area of conversation topics."

"I'm sorry."

It was a dance they knew all too well. One of them would say something stupid, or would do something wrong, and a passionate verbal fight would ensue. The aftermath would be rumpled hair and a tightened jaw (for him), flushed cheeks (for her), and a pair of very battered feelings. One of them – usually him, though two years ago, it was surprisingly her – would storm out in the heat of it all to leave the other one in tears (or frustration in his case). Apologies only came after the little fights, like when he refused to tell her where he got the black eye from, or when she kept her friendship with Dean a secret from him.

But apologies from her were always sincere, and he always accepted them without question.

He blew out a shaky breath as his hand found its way to hers which was still clutching his other arm.

"She's not you. Catherine's not you. I made her to… personify all my frustrations, my failures, my regrets. You may be a part of her, but so are a million other things."

She squeezed his hand to thank him for the truce he offered in his explanation. "Okay. I understand."

And her big, watery, blue, blue eyes told him that she did.

* * *

He went on and on about the amazing pieces he had come across thanks to Truncheon and the opportunity it offered. People not unlike himself would come to him, beg him to give their writings a chance. He never thought reading so much books would be of good use in his future – familiarity with grammar, devices, themes, movement.

Previous dates never heard this particular rambling from him. They predictably would've gone glassy-eyed.

But Rory Gilmore fixed him with her most encouraging smile (she could be a guidance counselor with just that smile) and her genuine interest, and he was pretty much gone.

By the time the check was asked for, his throat hurt from talking so much. He told her this, and she grinned triumphantly in reply.

* * *

"_You seem to have a very firm grasp of the English language."_

_Years of reading tends to do that to you._

"_You put together several full sentences, even using a couple of words that contain two or more syllables."_

_A hard feat, trust me._

"_And then my mother appears, and suddenly, we need a thought bubble above your head to understand what you're thinking. Can you tell me why that is?"_

_Because she's not you, Rory._

_I can only be like that with you._

* * *

Dinner was good. The food was good. The service was good. The conversation was good.

The way her pale, blue dress brought out her eyes, however, elevated the 'good' to 'perfect.'

He remembered now why he initially thought (two days ago, before she charmed her way back into his life) that going out, even under the guise of friendship, with her was a bad idea.

Five years and more than a dozen failed dates later, he still hadn't gotten over Rory Gilmore.

And though it wasn't killing him anymore like he confidently declared to her after their coffee-and-conversation yesterday, it was causing him to openly stare at her while she rambled off into Kerouac-long sentences, milky skin glowing, be it from the soft lights of the restaurant, or under the pale moonlight.

A few words like "Wilde", "Cassady", a handful of other authors, structure-and-content and political themes, temporarily caught his attention, but this frightening realization played a much different conversation in his mind.

'_I won't leave you this time. I don't love Logan anymore. We're both ready now. Please don't let me leave without trying…'_

The shadow of her waving hand shook him out of his psychotic-esque, internal monologue.

"Are you still in there? Because I just insulted about half of your favorite writers and all you did was nod with that weird, scared look on your face."

"I'm sorry." He tried his best to look sheepish for her sake. "You completely lost me."

She gave him a mock-hurt look he'd seen on Lorelai a few years ago when Luke refused to give her coffee. He was only joking, of course.

"I'm boring you."

"No!" he denied, perhaps a bit too quickly, vehemently. "Sorry. I'm just really tired, Ror. Happy though," he added as he saw her face start to falter. "Tired and happy."

The smile returned – fully, this time. She pulled him by the arm toward an ice cream stand near her motel. "It's too early," she whined. "Let's eat ice cream and count the stars. Then, when we're done counting all of them, you can walk me back."

Her attempt to prolong their evening was not lost on him. He could play the game though. He had yet to figure out how to broach the topic of possibility of dating each other again.

"What if the sun rises and we're not yet done?"

"Then, we'll wait until it sets and continue from where we left off."

He bought two cones, because they both ate ice cream on cones and nowhere else. One rocky road and one plain chocolate. She led him to a bench across the street, at the entrance of a small park. Above them, the stars continued to twinkle.

"You know, I always ate ice cream in cones. Since the accident. It drove Lane crazy because we always had to buy cones whenever she and Zack had a huge fight and she wanted to pig out on ice cream."

He snorted into his cone. "I told you it's the only way to eat it."

"Mom just chalks it up to one of my many quirks. Nobody really knows why but you."

They shared a private smile at their private joke.

"Your turn. Tell me something, Jess."

"Like what?"

Her tongue darted out to lick a marshmallow that sat precariously at the edge of her chocolate ice cream.

He swallowed the urge to kiss her then and there.

"Something nobody knows."

He thought for a second. "I've been scared only twice."

Her eyes widened disbelievingly. "No, really? When?"

"This swan attacked me at the lake in Stars Hollow. I know, a swan. It sounds stupid, but it went straight for my eye, and I swear to god, it would've pecked my eye out if I didn't get away fast enough."

She was trying hard not to laugh at first, but by the time he finished the story, she looked sincerely sympathetic.

"Were you bleeding?"

"Nah. Hurt like hell though."

"It sounds like a really bad horror movie."

"Seemed like it at the time." With Emily Gilmore as the scary monster in the end.

She squeezed his hand to comfort him. "So when was the second time you got scared?"

He knew nothing went past Rory Gilmore, though he still hoped she'd forget. His heart thudded painfully, not unlike the time when they both stood awkwardly by the gas pumps in quiet anticipation for what was about to come. The thought of lying didn't even occur to him.

"Now."

"I don't see a swan," she whispered, though she made no show of looking at their surroundings to confirm this. She knew. She knew what he meant.

"Ready for my next secret?" he asked. She gave him no answer, but he tells her anyway.

Looking her straight in the eye, he croaked, "I'm ready."

She remained quiet.

"Four years ago, I said I was ready, but I wasn't. My stay in California taught me a lot about myself, my father, where I came from, but I was still the same, insecure, indecisive, irresponsible boy that left you. Two years ago, when I found a decent way to earn a living which I enjoyed doing, when I made new friends and created a new life, I thought I was ready for you for real. I wasn't. And neither were you. But now, I swear to you, I'm ready now. This might end horribly, and we might not speak to each other for another two years, but you have to know that I want to take a shot at us one more time."

Her eyes were wide as he spoke. Her mouth formed a small 'o' from shock. He hoped it wasn't from horror.

"Think about it, Ror. Just say you'll think about it."

He was begging, but he was way past humiliation. This was taking another chance at love because he only felt the slightest of it when she realized he came back from New York because of her and she kissed him for the first time, when she sobbed her goodbyes to him on her high school graduation (he should have been there) while he silently held the phone to his ear, and when she looked at him with pride as he showed her his first published novel.

He had yet to experience love as the poets described it – hope, forgiveness, unwavering, unconditional, promises, forever. And he just knew she was the only one who could (and by 'could,' he meant 'physically, emotionally, and spiritually capable of performing the action') give it to him.

Their scoops of ice cream were long gone before she found her voice to respond to his pleas.

"Walk me back, Jess," her mouth spoke. But her eyes held him a promise she had yet to verbalize.

He rested his hand on the small of her back, a familiar, long-ago gesture, and led her toward the motel across the street.

They were at the door within minutes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and urged him to draw closer.

He complied like a puppet with its strings being tugged.

"Dinner was good," she whispered.

"Dinner was great," he corrected her pointedly.

Her lips curved into a sweet smile. She pulled him closer.

"Good night, Jess."

"Good night, Rory," he breathed in her ear, earning a violent shiver from her. His lips brushed gently against her cheek, causing all blood to rush to her face. He whispered almost-kisses against flushed skin, leaving long, burning trails. He took his time – he was in no hurry – before pulling back. Dripping blue eyes met smoldering amber.

She was so close he could count the freckles on her pale nose.

"I need your help," he admitted seriously with intense gaze burning.

Her blush deepened in response.

"W-why?"

"We always had similar literary tastes except for Hemmingway and Rand. But I've always trusted your judgment."

"And?"

"As you know, I'm still deciding if I should," he nervously ran his fingers through dark, untamed hair, "just end my novel and give Emelio a life of misery."

His voice trailed of uncertainly, his eyes urging her to make him go on.

"Or?" she gasped.

"Or if I should continue, because… maybe you're right, they both deserve a real ending." His voice grew softer until it was barely a whisper. "What do you think should I do?"

She had seven freckles on her nose, five on her right cheek, and four on her left. Her eyes were azure, sometimes darker, almost a cobalt shade, with flecks of sliver that could only be seen if one was inches from her face. He had yet to be reacquainted with how her lips felt beneath his own, how her mouth tasted like. Two years was a long time.

"I-I think …" she bit her lip and frowned. "You already know what I think."

It was all the encouragement he needed. He smiled, one corner of his crooked mouth quirking upward, leaned close enough for their foreheads to touch.

Their eyelids simultaneously fluttered to a close.

"Rory…"

'_There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too tough for him. Little dark girl with kind eyes, please set it free. Please set me free.'_

"Rory, I need to-"

"Do you want to come in?" she interrupted him.

He swore his racing heart just stopped. His fingers grazed her cheek to make sure this was real.

"Sure."

He breathed a sigh of relief, and followed her through the wide open door.


End file.
